The other day my dad called Donald Trump a “total asshole.” He’s 86 years old and conservative – my dad, that is. We’re finally seeing eye to eye, so I know there’s hope.
I sobbed on election night, unable and unprepared for the backwardness that had just been unleashed on my world. By January 21, 2017, I was on my feet in Washington, DC, marching in the pink pussy hat I might be wearing until Trump leaves office.
On the streets on inauguration night, people in pussy hats rubbed shoulders with folks in “Make America Great Again” hats.
But don’t think the divide between us and them is well marked.
My girlfriend and I bumped into a couple, she in a black taffeta ball gown and he a Tom Ford tux.
Us: “Are you going to an inauguration ball?”
Them: “Yes, we are.”
He couldn’t remember if it was the “Freedom” or the “Liberty” Ball. It should have been called the Kick America In The Balls Ball. “Are you ladies heading to the March tomorrow?”
Us: “We sure are.”
Them: (smiling and waving) “Have a great time!”
I got the feeling she would have rather gone to the march.
Everywhere I went in my hat over the next three days, people smiled and told me they’d been there, wanted to be but had to work or that their wife or mom was there. On Tuesday morning as we passed through airport security, a female officer called out, “Thanks for coming, ladies!” – as though we showed up at her church bazaar or helped her raise a barn. Gratitude – it felt that personal.
Since I got home, executive orders and creepy Twitter missives from Trump’s bed have bombarded the world. My hours have been sucked away by social and less social media as I try to keep up and make sense of it all, while feeling some relief that it’s not my country that’s unravelling so spectacularly.
Then a homegrown terrorist attacked a mosque in Quebec City, leaving six dead, and it was clear that any smugness or complacency I dared feel, any thoughts that the hell was elsewhere, were dangerous and foolhardy.
But our sanity will be best served by seeing Trump’s ascendancy not as a coming apart of democracy, but as a coming together of a movement. Even alone in the middle of the night, when fears and anxieties do their best to wreak havoc, we won’t be taking it lying down.
How will I survive? I plan to kick up a lot of shit, hold a lot of hands, chant until I lose my voice and wash my pussy hat often. And laugh.
I understand why some were offended by the “Donald Trump got more fat women walking in one day than Michelle Obama did in eight years” joke. But we need to keep a sense of humour to shoulder these obscenities.
Michelle Obama said stuff like “Let’s all get into shape and eat better!” Trump said, “Listen, you ugly bitches, I’m going to fuck up your world with my walls, my bans, my long ties to Putin, my pussy-grabbing hate.” Damn right we started exercising… our rights.
We marched across continents. We gathered in the 10s and hundreds of thousands to burn off some of that anger (and maybe a calorie or two) and experience the joy of being collectively, colossally pissed off.
Sure, give Trump the credit for that. He has no idea what kind of P90X-style protest movement he’s unleashed.
In the coziness of my hat, the looks I get – dirty and smiley – are both telling. I know my allies. I know my foes. I know there’s a massive in-between that’s shifting our way.
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